


the mark watney school of functionality

by lucifucker



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - Andy Wier Novel
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, excessive tweeting, ive never written such fluff, mild PTSD, mostly comfort tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris sighs, and rubs his thumb over Mark’s knuckles.</p><p>“Just talk about the potatoes.” He says, and watches Mark’s eyes light up with the hatred of a thousand suns, yet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mark watney school of functionality

Sometimes, Mark has nightmares.

  


It’s not every night, and they’re not debilitating, or life-altering. He doesn’t wake up screaming, gasping for air, frantic that the HAB is unstable.

  


Most nights, he just wakes up for a few seconds, a little confused, and then feels Chris pressed against his side, curls a little closer, and goes back to sleep.

  


It’s really not a big deal.

  


\--

  


They’re sitting at Mark’s kitchen table the morning before another batch of Ares III-related interviews, when Mark says;

  


“Y’know, sometimes I don’t wanna talk about Mars.”

  


Chris looks up at him over the rim of his glasses, and raises his eyebrows.

  


“Yes?” Mark slumps down farther into his chair.

  


“Yeah, and then, sometimes, I _really_ don’t wanna talk about Mars.” He mutters, desolately, at the counter, and Chris sighs, and rubs his thumb over Mark’s knuckles.

  


“Just talk about the potatoes.” He says, and watches Mark’s eyes light up with the hatred of a thousand suns, yet again.

  


“The _potatoes_.” He seethes, eyes widening where he’s still gazing at the tile, and Chris smiles.

  


“Yeah, babe. The potatoes.”

  


\--

  


Sometimes, Mark has nightmares, but most nights they’re manageable. Most nights, it’s fine. Some nights, all it takes is the steady rise and fall of Chris’ chest next to him, or the ambient sounds of the city outside to remind him that he’s safe. That he’s at home, and that two hundred twenty five million kilometers is a pretty safe distance from Mars.

  


Sometimes, though, there are thunderstorms.

  


It’s different, then.

  
  
  
  


\--

  


@ares3watney: no, I do not want fries w that

@ares3watney: NO, I do not want to sub in HOME FRIES

@ares3watney: NO, CURLY FRIES ARE NOT BETTER

@ares3johann: @ares3watney tater tots?

@ares3watney: @ares3johann GET OUT

  


\--

  


The rain’s hitting the windows of the apartment like bullets, and every few minutes the crack of thunder booms across Houston, making Mark shake, a little, where he’s wrapped in one of Mrs. Beck’s wool blankets.

  


Chris is gonna be here in the morning, and it’s fine, he’s fine, he’ll be fine, but it’s just.

  


It’s just that the wind is whistling against the bricks on outer walls of the complex, and every time lightning moves across the sky, it looks just like the outside of the plastic wrap around the mouth of the HAB, and Mark would close the blinds, he would, but when he closes them, it’s worse.

  


With the blinds closed, there’s nothing to remind him he’s on Earth, no cars or stars or Houston city skyline. With the blinds closed, he may as well be back in the HAB.

  


He woke up about forty minutes ago, when the thunder first started to crack, and, naturally, couldn't go back to sleep, because how the fuck would anyone be able to sleep with this fresh hell going on outside?

  


Well, by not having PTSD, Mark guesses, but that’s neither here nor there.

  


He’s in the middle of resigning himself to not sleeping until either the storm passes or he dies when there’s the creak of the front door opening, and Chris stumbles into the bedroom, soaking wet and looking frantic.

  


His shoulders relax incrimentally when he sees Mark in the center of the bed, and he immediately kicks off his boots and kneels on the edge, breathing heavily.

  


“Are you okay?” Chris asks, and it takes Mark a second to remember to talk.

  


“What? Uh, yeah.” He shakes his head, and furrows his eyebrows. “What--” Chris motions toward the window, crawling across the bed toward him.

  


“The storm.” He wraps an arm around Mark’s waist, and pulls him close, pressing his chest against Mark’s back, and his face into the crook of his neck. “I--I didn’t know if--”

  


Mark relaxes back into Chris’ embrace, and closes his eyes.

  


“I couldn’t sleep.” He mumbles, and Chris kisses the corner of his jaw.

  


“I figured.” He murmurs into Mark’s neck, and Mark sighs.

  


“I thought you were in Connecticut till the morning.”

  


“I came back early.” The fingers of one of Chris’s hands push up under Mark’s shirt, and splay over his stomach, index laying flat over the scar on his side. “Read about the storm online.”

  


“You’re the best boyfriend on Earth.” Mark laughs, the panic already starting to ebb away as he’s given something new to focus on, and he feels more than hears Chris snort.

  


“Just Earth?” Mark rolls his eyes.

  


“Yeah, well, unless you wanna be compared to the MAV--”

  


“Nope!” Chris interjects, and shakes his head. “Nope. I’m good.”

  


They lay there, like that, for a few minutes, with the wind still rattling the city outside and the thunder still shaking Mark’s bones every few minutes, but now, when he feels the panic start to rise in his chest, Mark focuses in on Chris’ heartbeat, steady against his back, instead of, y’know, panicking.

  


“You need anything?” Chris asks, and Mark shakes his head.

  


“Nah, I’m. I’m good.”

  


\--

  


@ares3watney: this just in: @ares3beck farts in his sleep

@ares3martinez: @ares3watney TMI, bro.

@ares3beck: @ares3watney @ares3martinez Somebody’s not getting laid this week.

  


\--

  
  


They’re lying in bed, one morning, with the sun filtering into the bedroom through the curtains, and Chris breathing steadily into the crook of Mark’s neck, and it comes like an epiphany, but, like, a really fucking stupid epiphany that shouldn’t be an epiphany at all.

  


“What if you moved in with me?” Chris is silent, and still, for a second, and then pushes himself up on an elbow, making eye contact with Mark.

  


“Would you...want that?” Mark blinks.

  


“I mean, I asked, so yes.” Chris bites his lip.

  


“I dunno. You’re kind of a slob, Watney.” Mark widens his eyes in a show of true dramatic talent.

“I can change! I can be a better man for you, Beck!” Chris laughs, and Mark laughs, and then Chris kisses Mark and mumbles a ‘yes’ into his mouth, and it’s alright.

  


\--

  


@ares3watney: this just in: shopping for furniture is the downfall of every successful relationship.

@ares3johann: @ares3watney is @ares3beck as neurotic about desks as he is about sample organization

@ares3watney: @ares3johann @ares3beck worse.

@ares3johan: @ares3watney @ares3beck I’m so sorry.

  


\--

  


“You’re doing it wrong.”

  


“I’m doing it _exactly right_ , Beth.”

  


“Mmmm, nope.” Mark drops the two pieces of wood he’s unsuccessfully trying to fit together in favor of putting his hands on his hips.

  


“Sorry, where in your file does it say ‘Ikea Engineer’?” He asks, and Beth rolls her eyes. “Nowhere? Then shut up.”

  


“Only you could survive five hundred forty nine sols on Mars but be stumped by a dresser.” Chris says breezily, sinking down onto the couch next to Beth, and sipping his beer. Mark makes a sound he really hopes sounds as much like a growl as he intends it to, and picks up the pieces again.

  


“I’m a fucking engineer.” He grumbles, and then freezes as the pieces are taken smoothly out of his hands, leaving them hanging in the air clutching for wood that’s no longer there. Rick snorts.

  


“This is what confuses you?” He asks, incredulously, and fits the pieces together in one fluid movement, handing it back to Mark. “ _This_?” Mark groans, and sinks down off his knees and onto his ass on the floor, tossing the assembled pieces into the pile with the rest of the evil tan garbage.  

  


“I hate earth.” He mutters, and leans back against Chris’ legs while Rick gets down to business. “Send me back to Mars.”

  


“Potatoes.” Rick coos, cheerily, and Mark makes a retching sound.

  


“Nevermind.”

  


\--

  


@NASA: Astronaut Christopher Beck (@ares3beck), flight surgeon of the Ares III mission is taking your questions!

@ares3watney: @ares3beck where did you put my socks?

@ares3beck: @ares3watney in the sock drawer, you slob. 

@ares3watney: @ares3beck traitor

@NASA: @ares3beck @ares3watney professionalism, please, gentlemen.

@ares3watney: chill, Annie.

  


\--

  


Melissa opens the door to Mark’s apartment to the sound of Mark shouting, incoherently, and the sight of a grocery bag being tossed out the window.

  


“Trouble in paradise?” She asks, bemusedly, while Mark rants and raves quietly about whatever it was, and Chris laughs, uncontrollably.

  


“Nah.” He rasps, leading her inside. “Martinez brought potatoes.” Martinez, who’s currently on the floor, laughing twice as hard as however hard Chris is laughing while Mark seethes good-naturedly on the couch.

  


“Fucking potatoes.” He growls, while Rick starts to gasp for air.

  


Melissa sits down on the couch next to Chris, and shakes her head.

  


“This is what we needed Vogel and Johannason for. Crowd control.”

  


Mark tries to kick her, but misses, because Chris is already dragging him down onto the couch, cursing and spitting insults all the way.

  


\--

  


_New information suggests that the NASA astronaut may be more unstable than previously believed, after a few interesting interactions on twitter, and an incident involving potatoes being thrown out of his Chicago apartment window._

_  
_

_NASA Director Theodore Sanders declined to make an official statement on Watney’s state of mind, but did add; “I’d be pretty potato-phobic after that long, myself.”_

  


\--

  


“You’re gonna do great.”

  


“I’m gonna fuck it up.”

  


“Nope. Great.” Chris kisses him, again, fingers curled around the collar of Mark’s flannel, and Mark smiles, weakly, adjusting his glasses.

  


“Mark Watney, professor of astronautics.” He whispers to himself, and Chris laughs.

  


“Mom always told me I should land myself a teacher.” He says, and pushes Mark out the door, closing it behind him with a wink.

  


Six hours later when Mark comes home, it’s with a bounce in his step, and a grin lighting up his entire face.

  


“I was awesome!” He shouts, and tears off his jacket and flannel, leaving them on the couch. “I was so fucking awesome!” There’s a laugh from behind the bedroom door, and when Mark pushes it open, Chris is in bed, holding a book.

  


“How fucking awesome?” He asks, and Mark kicks off his boots, crawling across the bed to straddle Chris’ lap.

  


“So. Fucking. Awesome.” It comes out as less of a sentence and more of a growl, and Chris abandons his book in favor of sliding his hands up under Mark’s shirt, biting his bottom lip.

  


“I told you you wouldn’t fuck it up.” He chuckles, and Mark dips down to kiss him, all joy, and warmth, and excitement.

  


“You were right.” He rasps. “You’re always right, why don’t I tell you you’re right more?” Chris laughs, again, and pulls off Mark’s shirt, tossing it to the side.

  


“I don’t know. You should examine that part of yourself.” He quips, and keeps grinning, until Mark grinds his hips down, and then all semblance of humor is very quickly sucked from the situation.

  


\--

  


@ares3watney: PSA: @ares3beck is a sensual and conscientious lover.

@ares3beck: PSA: @ares3watney is alright.

@ares3watney: @ares3beck really? just alright?

@ares3beck: @ares3watney don’t push your luck.

  


\--

  


“ _I don’t wanna come off as arrogant, but I am the best botanist on the planet_.”

  


“What are you doing?” Chris jumps where he’s sat at his computer desk, and Mark holds in a smirk at how much he moves like a startled puppy.

  


“Uh--well, NASA put the logs up on YouTube, so--”

  


“Right. Releasing my strife and misery for all the world to see. I remember Teddy mentioning that at some point.” Mark likes to think he and Teddy have a very copacetic relationship. The fucking asshole. “Are you gonna watch all of them?”

  


Chris shrugs, and turns his chair all the way around, folding his hands over his stomach.

  


“Is that okay with you?” Mark moves closer, slides his fingers into Chris’ hair while Chris presses his forehead against his hip.

  


“I mean...there’s some embarrassing shit in there, yeah, but.” He shrugs. “I guess I want you to know.” Chris looks up, and smiles.

  


“Kick ass?” He says, softly, and Mark grins, leans down, resting their foreheads together.

  


“Go to space.” Chris bites his bottom lip.

  


“Represent the human race.” Mark kisses him, softly, sliding his hand down to cup the back of Chris’ neck, and Chris reaches up, curling his fingers in the front of Mark’s shirt, grounding him, there.

  


A minute later the logs are the last thing on either of their minds.

  


\--

  


Sometimes, Chris gets nightmares, too.

  


They’re few and far between, and rarely even wake him up.

  


Chris dreams about gravel storms, and vanishing planets, and the sound of static screams.

  


He wakes up, the morning after, and wraps himself around Mark, and when Mark asks why, shrugs.

  


“Glad you’re here.” He mumbles, and Mark whispers ‘gay’ under his breath, but holds him back.

  


\--

  


@ares3vogel: is this working?

@ares3watney: @ares3vogel VOGEL

@ares3martinez: @ares3watney @ares3vogel VOGEEEEEL

@ares3vogel: @ares3watney @ares3martinez I have some regrets.

  


\--

  


“I miss Vogel.” Chris murmurs into Mark’s shoulder, one night, and Mark feels a pang in his chest.

  


“Me, too.” He looks down, and his nose brushes Chris’ hair. “But I got kinda used to missing people.” There’s a pause, and a silence, and then Chris presses closer, arm tightening where it’s thrown around Mark’s waist.

  


“Yeah, well, now all we gotta do is take a nine hour flight.” He mumbles, and Mark grins.

  


“Right. No gravitationally propelled mid-space rescue missions.” He feels Chris smile.

  


“Yeah. None of that.”

  


\--

  


@ares3watney: flights from germany to houston are stupid expensive.

@ares3lewis: @ares3watney you’re an astronaut

@ares3watney: @ares3lewis your point?

  


\--

  


“Vogel!”

  


“Vogeeeeel!”

  


Vogel’s been inside the apartment for approximately .35 seconds before Mark and Rick are descending on him like vultures, hugging, and laughing, and pushing and shoving at each other to get a better look at him in a pretty constant litany of;

  


“You have hair! You actually have hair! There’s hair on your head!”

  


“You look great, man, you been getting some sun?”

  


“Did you get taller? You totally got taller.”

  


Until Lewis pushes through them to give the weathered and slightly confused German a normal human being hug, and they’re forced to disperse.

  


The five of them sit in Chris and Mark’s living room, reunited for the first time since they landed back in Houston, and looking around at them, something warm starts to rise in Mark’s chest. Beth is rolling her eyes at Rick, and Vogel’s laughing, and Melissa is smiling, quietly, her rigid demeanor completely gone in favor of relaxed shoulders and soft eyes.

  


Chris’s fingers link with his, against his leg, and Mark smiles.

  


\--

  


Sometimes, Mark has nightmares.

  


But, usually, when that happens, he opens his eyes, and thinks about his life.

  


He thinks about the classes he teaches, and the Houston city skyline, and the family he found in his crew.

  


He thinks about his boyfriend, and his apartment, and his stupid fucking Ikea dresser.

  
Sometimes, Mark has nightmares, but he’s usually okay, after. 


End file.
